


Evidence of Wounds Still Healing

by GinnyK



Category: The West Wing
Genre: Episode Tag, Episode: s04e20 Evidence of Things Not Seen, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-05-31 03:32:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,504
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15110915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GinnyK/pseuds/GinnyK
Summary: Post-epEvidence of Things Not Seen





	Evidence of Wounds Still Healing

**Author's Note:**

> A copy of this work was once archived at National Library, a part of the [ West Wing Fanfiction Central](https://fanlore.org/wiki/West_Wing_Fanfiction_Central), a West Wing fanfiction archive. More information about the Open Doors approved archive move can be found in the [announcement post](http://archiveofourown.org/admin_posts/8325).

By the time the crash is over, I send Joe Quincy on his merry way and talk to Leo I figure Donna's on her way home. I should have known better than to think that. Shots were fired at the building I work in, why did I think she would go home and get a good night sleep? 

No idea. 

The first thing I notice as I get to the bullpen, other than how cute she looks sitting at her desk absently staring into a cup of tea, is that how quiet it is. Everyone pretty much left as quickly as they could after we were given the all clear sign but that's not it. Usually late at night when we're working Donna has the radio on. And now it's off and it's a glaring reminder of what happened tonight and why Donna's still hanging out here, worrying about me. 

"Hey," she says without turning around, having caught my reflection in her computer monitor. She holds up the cup so I can take a sip. Mmmm, green tea with mint. "Stanley's cell number is on your desk." 

"And he's expecting my call?" I ask, trying to sound annoyed. But I really can't, she's just worried about me and I can't fault her for that. She stands up and turns to face me. She looks as tired as I feel. 

"Yes, he's expecting your call." 

"OK, I'll call him. But Donna, I'm fine, really." 

"Sure. So how many pieces of hard candy did you have in the past few hours?" she asks, eyebrows arched, that DON'T BOTHER LYING TO ME look on her face. 

God, how does she do that? 

"I lost count and I ran out," I call over my shoulder as I head for my office. Next to the phone is a new bag of candy. The candy thing started after I was first diagnosed with PTSD and the doctor put me on Paxil. It left my mouth dry and so I tried drinking extra water but all that did was send me into the men's room a dozen times a day. So I tried hard candy. I worked and now I have this candy...thing. When I get stressed or as Donna says, when I have a nutty, I go for the candy. Most days it's a piece or two, tonight I emptied my pocket. I open the bag and take out a piece as I pull at my tie and collapse into my chair. Donna pokes her head into the doorway a few minutes into my conversation with Stanley. She closes the door behind her and puts a cup of tea on my desk as she walks behind me. She stares out the window, trying not to act like she's listening to my conversation. But she is and that's fine with me. By the time the conversation is over I realize I'm not quite as fine as I thought I was. No big surprise. But I'm nowhere near a full blown episode and I'm sure after some sleep I'll be fine. Donna turns away from the window and hesitates for just a second before dropping one hand to my shoulder while the other hand gently runs through my hair. I tip my head back and she plants a soft kiss on my forehead. She blushes a little and tries to pull away but I manage to grab her hand before she gets anywhere. Things have been a little strained between us over the past few weeks. A little less physical, a little more professional, the banter a little forced, like earlier tonight. 

She circles my chair, pulls me to my feet and we walk to the front of my desk and sit on the floor. We're silent as she rubs my back. It's both comforting and unnerving the way she can go from vaguely pissed at me to worried about me in the blink of an eye. I guess I should be used to it by now. 

The phone rings and Donna reaches over my head to grab it. 

"It's your mom," she says as she hands me the phone and pats my shoulder. She drops the box of tissues in my lap and leaves the room. The blinds are open and as I talk to my Mom, doing my best to try and reassure her that I'm ok, I can see Donna at her desk. She's got her head in her hands. It's obvious she's reached her own breaking point regarding the whole incident. But she's waited until I'm occupied to break down. I tell my Mom what I see and she hustles me off the phone with the suggestion that I take Donna out for some coffee. 

Now Donna's still visibly upset but I don't want to just go out there. The only reason she's allowing herself to get upset is because she thinks I'm safely out of earshot talking to my mother. I gather up my backpack and coat while glancing out into the bullpen every few seconds. Donna finally looks at the phone and notices the light for the extension is out. Quickly wiping her face and blowing her nose she pulls herself together, getting rid of all evidence of her emotional few minutes. I really wish she didn't feel the need to do that. Sure, it hurts me to see she's upset, even more so when I am part of the reason for the way she feels. But she doesn't need to hide it from me. God knows I don't hide much from her, even when I try. 

"Mom says I should take you out for coffee," I say as I lean against the doorjamb, arms folded across my chest. 

"Sounds like a plan." she says, plastering on an overly cheery grin. 

Ten minutes later we're sitting in a coffee shop around the corner from the White House, two steaming cups of coffee and a big piece of pecan pie on the table between us. We eat and talk about nothing in particular. I tease her about how Joe can be her next Republican conquest and she teases me about my less that stellar poker skills. All too soon we're both yawning and struggling to focus on the conversation. We've reached the part of the day where all energy had drained from our bodies and our minds have shut down. But it's clear neither of us is ready to give up the others company and neither wants to be the first to admit it. So we do what we usually do, leave together and somehow migrate towards my place without verbalizing our plans. We go through the usual motions of changing into boxers and t-shirts, brushing our teeth together and saying goodnight with a kiss on the cheek. Still neither of us is quite ready to be alone. Truth is, I'm sure we won't be making it through the night without at least one episode of heart wrenching sobs. 

And I'm right. 

It's a little after two when the first choking gasp breaks the silence of my room. We blindly reach for each other in the dark, this being one of those nights....one of the nights where we share a bed. Tears dampen my cheeks and hushed whispers fill the room. 

"Shh, it's ok, I'm here, don't cry." 

"I can't...I can't help it." 

"I know. I just hate to see you so upset." 

We cling to each other as if we're the last two people on earth. Sounds corny but it's true. As close as we are to each other now, bare legs tangled under the sheets, arms wrapped around each other, it's not about sex and physical proximity, it's about two people clinging to the one constant in each of their lives. It's about trying to make sense of the world gone mad. It's raw emotion at the most basic of levels. The need to feel secure. The need to feel loved. 

"Honey, take a deep breath, you're going to make yourself sick." 

We both blindly reach for the box of tissues on my nightstand. Tears are wiped away, breathing becomes more regular and the hold we have on each other loosens a little. I pull the covers up a little higher around us and take a few deep breaths. 

"Feel better?" 

The answer comes in the form of a weak nod in the dark. 

"Want to talk about it?" 

"No." 

"It might help." 

"No, I'm tired. I just want to sleep." 

"Donna, please, talk to me." I plead gently as I wipe the few remaining tears off her cheeks. She doesn't answer, instead she curls up against my side and snakes her hand under my t-shirt, resting it over the scar on my chest. Sniffling a little she takes a few deep breaths and starts to settle back down. The heart wrenching sobs are over for now. Hopefully we will make it through the night without my taking a turn. 

THE END 


End file.
